The King’s Evil. Andrew TaylorЧитать онлайн книгу.
quiet. And then in the dark, he stumbled …’
His voice trailed away. What of the mastiffs, I thought, the night-watchmen, the bolts, the bars, locks and all the other precautions that Clarendon took to keep his palace safe from intruders?
‘You must know, sir,’ Milcote went on with sudden urgency, ‘Lord Clarendon has many enemies. If someone like the Duke of Buckingham heard of this, he would find ways to use it against him – perhaps even accuse him of arranging Alderley’s murder. Surely it would be better for everyone – for the King and the Duke of York, as well as my lord – if the body weren’t here?’
‘What do you mean?’ I said, my voice cold.
‘Lord Clarendon is the last man to wish to stand in the way of justice, but Mr Alderley is dead, and we can’t change that, either by accident or by his own design.’ He gestured at the dead man, shrouded in his long shirt. ‘Couldn’t he be found somewhere else? It would be an innocent subterfuge, which would harm no one, least of all him. Indeed, it would protect Alderley’s reputation. Otherwise men might say that he intended some knavery by coming here.’
He held the lantern higher, trying to make out my expression, and waited for me to speak.
‘And it would protect Lord Clarendon, too, in this difficult time,’ he rushed on. ‘The poor man has enough troubles already without this. I wish to spare him the addition of this one. He is a good man, sir, and an honourable one, whatever his enemies say.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ I said.
‘All we would need do is move Alderley out of the garden and leave him in one of the market gardens near the Oxford road.’ Milcote followed me out of the basement. ‘Perhaps in a pond, to explain the water … Then it would look as if he had been robbed and murdered by thieves. No one could say any differently.’
I said nothing. We replaced the cover on the well and climbed the stairs in silence. At the door, I waited for Milcote to find the key.
He shook his head as if reproving himself. ‘Forgive me, sir. You must think my wits are astray. Pray forget what I said. I hardly know what I’m saying.’
After we had searched the body and examined the rest of the pavilion, I dined privately with Milcote in the steward’s quarters. He did not press me further with his arguments for moving the body. I had the impression that part of him was ashamed of having suggested it. Not that I condemned him – indeed, I honoured him for it in one way, because I realized that his loyalty to Lord Clarendon lay behind it.
I scarcely noticed what I ate, and we had little conversation. My mind was full of what I had learned in the last two hours. Our inspection of the pavilion had made it clear that the lower windows were barred and the upper ones were secure. The roof appeared intact. There was a viewing platform at the top, but the door to it, which was at the head of the staircase that had brought us down to the basement, was bolted and barred from the inside.
In other words, the door from the garden appeared to be the only point of access. And there were – as both Milcote and later the steward confirmed – only four keys to it: Lord Clarendon’s, the steward’s, Milcote’s – and Hakesby’s.
Before we left the pavilion, I had examined both the lock and Milcote’s copy of the key. I was no expert but I could see that it was a modern lock; the wards of the key were designed to turn four levers within the lock, and each was a different size from the others. To copy a key like this, I suspected, would require the services of a skilled locksmith. There was no sign of the mechanism having been forced.
To add to the mystery, the garden was full of people by day and overlooked from the house. No stranger could have passed through unobserved. By night, the garden gates were locked, the dogs let loose and the night watchmen patrolled at regular intervals.
True, I had solved another, lesser mystery to my private satisfaction, or at least discovered a plausible solution to it: if Hakesby had been here to work on the pavilion, then Cat might well have accompanied him at least some of the time. Alderley could have caught sight of her on one of his visits to Milcote.
Time was running out. The body could not be kept a secret for long, not in a world where the Duke of Buckingham and his allies were working so industriously against Lord Clarendon. The Duke of York was determined to avoid Alderley’s corpse becoming an embarrassment to his father-in-law, and therefore to himself. The King seemed equally determined, though as ever his motives were difficult to discern; perhaps he simply wanted to oblige his brother, or perhaps he had his own reasons for not wanting to lend ammunition to the enemies of Lord Clarendon, his former Lord Chancellor and his loyal companion and adviser during the long years of exile.
From Clarendon’s point of view, there were only two outcomes that would help him: the first was discovering how Alderley had died and bringing his killer, if there had been one, to justice in a way that completely absolved Clarendon himself; the other was far simpler – Milcote’s suggestion of moving the body elsewhere. If the King ordered the latter, it would be done. But not otherwise.
What worried me most was this: if, as seemed probable, Alderley had been murdered, then the most likely killer was Catherine Lovett. As I knew only too well, she was a woman who had few scruples when her passions were engaged, and Edward Alderley had given her every reason to hate him.
I would not betray her – or not willingly, for we had survived too much together for that. But if anyone else stumbled on the Clarendon House connection between her and Edward Alderley, then I would not give much for her chances – or indeed for my own, for I had already concealed what I knew of her.
If they hanged the daughter of a Regicide for Edward Alderley’s murder, would it not be convenient for everyone except Hakesby and myself? Moreover, I had given Cat forewarning that Alderley had somehow found her. Might that be construed as making me an accessory to his murder?
As the meal neared its end, I discussed at least some of this with George Milcote. He could not have been more helpful, though he was careful what he said when our conversation touched on anything that might affect the honour of Lord Clarendon. I liked his loyalty to his master, and I regretted that the circumstances obliged me to lie to him, at least by omission.
‘When did you last see Alderley?’ I asked.
‘Last week. We met at the Three Tuns at Charing Cross.’
‘He seemed as usual?’
‘Yes. He was in a good humour. We were discussing an investment of mine. I have a small share in a privateer, and he’d offered to buy it.’
I remembered the purse we had found. ‘He wasn’t that poor, then?’
‘No. I gathered that his affairs had taken a turn for the better.’ There was a ghost of a smile on Milcote’s face. ‘He paid for our wine.’
‘I must speak as soon as possible to the servant who found the body,’ I said. ‘Gorse, was it?’
‘Yes – Matthew Gorse. Will you come back here in the evening, or shall I send him to you?’
‘I shall need to come back here at some point,’ I said with more certainty than I felt. ‘Don’t let him leave until I’ve seen him.’
To maintain the fiction that I had never heard of Hakesby, I asked Milcote who he was, and whether he was to be trusted.
‘Mr Pratt vouched for him,’ he said. ‘In fact it was my lady – the late Lady Clarendon, that is – who suggested him.’
‘Pratt?’
‘Mr Roger Pratt – the architect. He designed the house for my lord, but he was unable to take on the pavilions.’
‘How did Lady Clarendon know of Mr Hakesby?’
‘I don’t think she ever mentioned it.’ Milcote shrugged. ‘No reason why she should have done, of course. The important thing is that Mr Pratt vouched for him. I understand that he has worked with both Dr Wren and Dr Hooke, and they speak highly